Friday, February 14, 2014

JC Andrijeski's Fantasy Series Allie's War is one I've read and found fascinating. I highly

recommend this series to fantasy readers. Her great books are very action packed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR-

JC Andrijeski has published
novels, novellas, serials, graphic novels and short stories, including new
adult fantasy series, Allie’s War, the new adult science fiction series, The
Slave Girl Chronicles, and the Gateshifter series, about a shape-shifting alien
and a tough-girl PI from Seattle. She also writes nonfiction essays and
articles, as well as some erotica. Her short works have been featured in
anthologies, online literary, art and fiction magazines as well as print venues
such as NY Press newspaper and holistic health magazines. JC travels
extensively and has lived abroad in Europe, Australia and Asia, but

currently
lives and works full time as a writer in Portland, OR.

To learn more about JC and her
writing, please visit www.jcandrijeski.com.

If you want to get an automatic
email when JC’s next book is released, sign up for her email newsletter at
tinyurl.com/JCAndrijeski. Your email will be kept private, never sold and you
can unsubscribe at any time. Word of mouth is essential for any author to
succeed.

Featured Book-

JC Andrijeski excerpt of Rook-

Excerpt 1-

“Put it down!” A voice yelled. “On the ground! Right now!”
I
blinked in confusion, staring at the bottle in my hand. The jagged end
of broken glass looked like something out of a cartoon, or an old
gangster movie.
Blood ran down the inside of my arm, not all of it mine. My muscles locked, bunched up with adrenaline.
Someone
must have called the police. The young guy in front of me didn’t have
his gun out, but his hand held the holster menacingly, and his uniform
brought a flush of panic, starting somewhere in my lower belly.
The
other fire that had burned there—irrationally bright only seconds
before—abruptly sobered. Without taking so much as a breath, I dropped
the broken bottle, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender.
I’ve
never been a tough chick. I’d never done anything remotely like this
before...but I knew enough to know that my arms covered in tattoos and
my punky, bleached-calico hair weren’t winning me any points with the
men in blue. I looked around at the swath of cleared space around the
bar.
“Hands up!” the cop yelled.
“They’re up!” I said.
He
walked up, grabbing one of my wrists. He spun me around so I faced the
bar. I felt cool metal hit my wrist as my chest thudded into the
lacquered wood.
“You have any weapons?” the young policeman asked.
He cuffed me, then patted me down. “Don’t fucking move!” he yelled,
when I turned to look at him.
“No weapons!” I was shouting I realized, scared out of my wits.
All
the while, my mind churned useless facts. People got shot doing stupid
shit like this. More cops got shot in domestic disputes than during any
other kind of call, which likely explained why the young cop’s hands
shook as he cuffed me.
My eyes swept the oddly bright space until
they lit on the person who had inspired all this drama, and that flame
of irrational feeling ripped once more through my chest cavity, making
it difficult to breathe, to think straight.
Jaden, my now
ex-boyfriend, stood like a store mannequin, his eyes as wide as saucers
in a pale face. He gripped the upper arm of his date, a voluptuous girl
in a red vinyl dress, as if to steady himself. I looked at her, and the
rage came back, intense enough to scare me. Breathing harder, I leaned
against the wood, closing my eyes, trying to crush my own chest.
Feeling ripped through my center, animal-like—almost painful.
In
my defense, I’d only heard about them that night, and the fact that
their affair started three months earlier, while I’d been blissfully
happy, thinking Jaden and I were mutually in love. According to his bass
player, she’d started hanging out with them after shows, eventually
winning him over with flattery, pouty lips and enormous tits.
She
was babbling something to him and her friends now, half-hysterical, her
arm bleeding profusely from where I’d slashed at her with the bottle,
her red-painted lips another dark wound on her face.
I stared at them both, thinking, this can’t be real. It can’t be. This isn’t me.
But it was.

Excerpt 2

I
stared out the dirty window of the bottle-green Plymouth, watching
trees and coast slide by. We were still on Highway 1, nearing where it
merged with 101, not far from the Oregon border.
I hadn’t been on
that stretch of road since I was a kid. What took minutes on Highway 5,
or even 101 from San Francisco to Eureka, took hours along Highway 1,
making the twisting two-lane road hugging the rocky coastline feel
endless. But Revik wanted us off the main highway, at least until we
crossed state lines. Even within seaside towns, he took side streets,
avoiding the main “strips,” if they could be called that in towns that
maybe had four bars, a salt-eaten motel, a greasy spoon, a church, a
head shop and one drive-through coffee stand.
Somewhere near Fort
Bragg, he uncuffed me from the door. I suppose I should’ve been grateful
for that, but as my hands and ankles remained bound, my gratitude was
limited. I watched the sun slink into the Pacific as pelicans skimmed
by, beating long wingspans.
I felt him looking at me. When he didn’t stop after a few minutes, I exhaled sharply, facing him.
“What?”
He
turned the wheel of the Plymouth, sliding behind the main street of
another seaside village whose name I didn’t know. We passed a few bars
and an auto shop. His pale eyes shone in the neon signs.
“We are low on gas. Can I trust you?”
“Dehgo...whatever your name is...”
“Revik.”
“Right. Are you going to tell me? What that guy meant about me ending the world?”
He exhaled. “Terian was trying to unbalance you. But it is true that they...” He amended, “...We believe you to be someone important.”
“Important how?”
“Allie, can I trust you, if I—”
“Revik, important how?”
Clicking
to himself, he pulled into a nearby Arco station. Stopping in front of a
pump, he turned off the ignition. When an attendant walked right up to
the window, I realized with some surprise that we must be in Oregon.
Revik rolled down the window, which stuck a few times. He gave me a last
warning glance.
“Hey! Cool car, man! What can she do on the freeway...?”
The boy’s words trailed, just before his eyes filmed over.
Revik
sat up to tug the clip from his back pocket, handing through a few
bills of paper money. I noticed the attendant’s eyes didn’t look at me
as he took the folded paper. They also didn’t glance at the rust-colored
stains on Revik’s shirt, or the slash of the same on his pale neck.
“Revik...”
Frowning,
he glanced at me, then at the rearview mirror. I watched as he licked
his fingers, rubbing at the dark stain on his neck. Then he leaned over
my lap and pulled open the glove box. Taking out an oil rag, he poured
some water in it from a plastic bottle and rubbed it over his neck,
erasing the mark completely.
“Revik, I’m hungry. I’m thirsty, too.”
Instead of answering, he handed me the half-full bottle.
I tilted it over my mouth, drinking.
His
tone remained neutral. “Like I told you...historical periods have
beginnings, middles and ends,” he said. “At the end, the dominant
species has an opportunity to evolve...in several possible directions.
We seers call these opportunities Displacements.” In the mirrors, he
watched the boy hook the pump to the tank. His fingers gripped the
wheel, green in the florescent light.
“…In some human mythology, this is called ‘Apocalypse.’ Do you know this word?”
I
rolled my eyes. “Yeah. I might have heard it on one or two heavy metal
albums.” I watched the blond kid in the dingy overalls enter the
convenience store. He walked to one of the coolers in the back, pulled
out a large bottle of water.
“...So you understand,” Revik said.
“This will, of necessity, affect all of the species, not just humans.
The elders have seen signs of the human displacement approaching. Some
of these signs relate to developments in the natural world. Others have
to do with—”
“Okay,” I said, still watching the boy. “...So you’re
paranoid. What does any of that have to do with me?” I watched the
blond kid pull two plastic-sealed sandwiches out of a cooler, two
apples, a bag of chips...
“Burrito,” I blurted. “Get me a frozen burrito...he can throw it in the microwave, right?”
A
hint of revulsion grew visible in the set of Revik’s mouth, but when I
looked back at the store, the blond kid was stuffing a plastic-covered
burrito into a industrial microwave and twisting the grease-covered
dial. When I glanced over, Revik was watching me again, his eyes narrow.
He
said, “The Bridge ushers in the Displacement. They are the catalyst.
They are also what we call an intermediary being...one of the first.
Historically, they gather three friends—”
“Let me guess...the four of us, we all ride horses, right?” I propped my cuffed hands on the armrest. “I do read, you know.”
I
leaned my head on the glass. Glancing in the side mirror, I winced. I
looked like I’d escaped from a mental hospital, then got beaten up and
thrown in a dumpster.
I saw him watching me, eyes narrow.
“Trust me to attract crazies even among the seers,” I said. “...Jon will love this.”
Revik
rolled down his window, accepting the receipt from the blond in the
dirty coveralls. The blue and white patch on his breast labeled him
“Jerry.” Jerry handed a paper bag through the window that Revik placed
on my lap, where its warmth soaked through my waitressing uniform skirt.
“The
Bridge is the catalyst,” Revik repeated, like I hadn’t spoken. “They
have their place, like any of the intermediary beings.” He turned the
key, and the GTX’s engine rumbled to life. “You need to understand your
importance. Not in terms of ego, but of role. It is a responsibility,
Allie.”
I looked up from the bag. “So, just to be clear. You're
saying I am going to end the world...at least as we know it. And that
this is a job that I should take seriously...and do really, really
well.” I tilted my head at him. “Did I get that right?”
I watched
him think. “Yes,” he said. “That is right. Simplistic, but ultimately
correct.” Before I could speak, or even laugh, I saw his eyes click back
into focus. “You will meet Vash. Then you will understand.”
“Did you just read my mind?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Is that absolutely fucking necessary?” I said.
He thought about this also, glancing at me.
“Yes,” he said.

Excerpt 3

We
approached Seattle. I glimpsed a skyline to my left, then flashes of
buildings through a maze of overpasses dripping with dark green plants.
I
recognized landmarks from being here with Jon, but couldn’t read signs
with how fast we were going. I’d stopped looking at the speedometer.
Revik was doing something in that other place, so I couldn’t use his
grid thing. I felt a few people point as we passed, and other vehicles
pulled over, moving out of the way of the line of cop cars screaming
behind us.
I felt it when the third cop car ceased to be a pull
toy between Revik and whoever else. I felt Revik lose and let go just
before the cop accelerated, coming up on us blaring light and sound. I
glanced over in time to see the dark-skinned cop smile at Revik, making
an odd flowing up and down gesture with one hand that had the flavor of a
taunt.
Then whatever held the cop’s body let go, leaving the cop
sweaty-faced, determined, and completely focused on the two of us. From
his eyes, he fully believed we’d killed his whole family with baseball
bats then lit his house on fire.
Revik turned to me, his pale eyes hard.
“Stop the car,” he growled.
I thought I’d heard him wrong. “What?”
Behind
him, I saw the Seattle cop raise a shotgun. Before I could react, Revik
grabbed the wheel, jerking it sideways to slam into the cruiser. The
cop dropped the shotgun.
“Revik, jesus! What are you—”
“Take that exit! Right now, Allie!”
He pointed and I veered, braking to slide across lanes.
I
saw the truck driver, who was still, amazingly, behind us, begin the
turn to follow, glimpsed faces as other, noninvolved drivers reacted,
eyes widening in fear as they tried to get out of my way, instead coming
even more dangerously close to hitting us. I slid behind the Washington
cop, in front of a different trucker who honked madly.
Then we were past, wincing from the scrape of metal as the GTX grazed his grill.
Revik
leaned out the window, firing at the Seattle cop from behind. He blew
out a rear tire with the first shot, smashed the back window with his
second. He chambered another round and aimed again, blocking my side
view when he climbed up to sit on the passenger side window.
The
Seattle cop cut across multiple lanes and again I felt the difference;
it was no longer a human driving, but one of those things with
lightning-fast reflexes and 360 degree vision. I was forced to brake,
saw Revik clutch the window frame as he lost his balance. The Seattle
cop swerved, just making it onto the exit off-ramp behind us. A sign
flashed by.
I glimpsed white words spelling “Mercer Island.”
Revik
slid back in through the window, landing on the seat. When I looked
over, his shoulder was bleeding again, a dark spreading stain under his
shirt.
“You are trained in basic firearms use?” he said.
“Right,” I said, loud over the wind and engine. “Dad taught me to shoot cans. I'm practically special forces.”
“Good.” He propped the gun up on the seat between us. “Use it if they get too close.” He added, “Or if I don’t come back.”
“What? Revik, that's not funny, I—”
His
body slumped against the seat. I cursed, swerved into a guardrail, and
the GTX threw up sparks. I gripped his arm in my stubby nails, hard
enough to bruise his skin. I shook him, wondered if I should hit him,
like he had me.
“Revik! You've got to be kidding me! REVIK!”
Something smashed into the back of the car.
I
was merging into the main sprawl of traffic and the truck driver with
the blue flannel shirt was in the next lane over. Pulling up alongside
the GTX, he aimed the pump-action shotgun out his window. I hit the
brakes and another cop car hit us from behind; it forced me along until I
accelerated, and the guy was honking, waving at me to pull over.
A
rush of panic made me wonder what would happen if I did. Even as I
thought it, the first Seattle cop drew up next to me on my other side.
...and
for an instant, I see him. A metal thread cage ensnares his light, and
behind his eyes breathe the orbs of the Rook controlling him. They shine
coal red, and he makes his thumb and index finger into the shape of a
gun, pointing it at me as his lips stretch in a corpse’s smile.Bang, bang, little girl.
I
snapped out, still miraculously gripping the steering wheel...and feel
them in me. They drag at me and I shriek, as if the sound of my own
voice might keep my light in my body.
But I can feel myself separating out, losing control of my limbs.
Lowering
my head, I bite down on my fingers. My teeth clamp on skin and bone and
my light rushes in like a rubber band snapping back.
Pain came
with the light. I un-clamped my jaw from the red crescent on my
knuckles. Blood dripped over the steering wheel once I’d extracted my
teeth.
Everything went dark.
We’d entered a tunnel. My foot mashed down on the accelerator.
Orange
lights streaked by in irregular lines as cars cast shadows on tile
walls. Surrender no longer felt like a good idea. The Seattle cop’s eyes
flash red and I realize I am still inside, just enough that they are
all around me...
I slam my head against the driver’s side window,
hard enough to crack it, leaving an impact mark surrounded by spider web
lines. I am losing it. I feel sick, anemic...like my blood leaches out
as they pull at me.
I keep my foot jammed on the accelerator as I
lean over and snatch at Revik’s seat belt, miss, grab for it again,
hooking it in my fingers. A car slams the GTX from behind, and I lose
the silver buckle, curse.
The third time, I dragged the nylon belt over his body and hooked it into the clasp at his side. His skin glistened with sweat.
I
hit him with my fist, hard in the side of the head, trying to wake him,
and lost control of the car, slamming into the guardrail, leaving paint
and metal as sparks flew before I got it off again.
Sunlight
washed into my eyes, slanting through the windshield as we flew out of
the second tunnel. Before me stretched a long bridge with water on
either side. The ramp aimed straight for the lake’s surface where the
bridge floated on top of the water.
I glanced at Revik.
“Mortal peril,” I muttered. “Mortal peril...”
I
didn’t think...but I saw every flash of metal and sunlight as I swung
the wheel. Veering behind a green Jetta, I made a straight line for the
right guardrail, beyond which lay Lake Washington. A thick, protective
rail stood between us and the water...
...but my mind seems to clasp it somehow, fold it, or maybe not my mind, but suddenly I can see through it...
...and we are through. Exhilaration lifts me as the car soared.
Then gravity clutched the GTX at the top of the arc. Its nose tipped.
As
water rushed to meet us, I could only hold the steering wheel, flashing
to being on a runaway horse as a kid, where I’d clutched a mare’s black
mane, screaming in fear and hysterical laughter. If a thought formed in
my mind just then, it may have been about death...the transitoriness of
all things.
Instead, there was a long, slow silence as the water rushed to meet.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

The Fun Part: Calinda B was told
early on that she should be a writer. She heard frequent praise for her
writing, as well as her sense of humor. Scoffing at such admonitions and
praise, she went on to pursue her life of adventure, chock full of the things
that make up a well-rounded adventurous life: music (yup, she was a singer in a
rock and roll band), dance (even performed hip hop in Russia), rock climbing
(ever hung from a rock wall a few stories up? Yikes!), fire walking (taught
high-ranking Moscow fire officials how to walk the coals), kayaking, scuba
diving (she's in love with sharks), travel, and falling in love again and again.

The Daily Grind: An
award-winning web designer and certified SEO specialist, Calinda B has worked
in the Internet industry as a web page designer/developer since the early
1990's. She has also taught web site design and computer graphics at community
colleges in Northern California. In addition to writing, Calinda B creates fine
art and music, and enjoys scuba diving, kayaking, and bike riding. Calinda B
makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with the love of her life and her two
cats. She is currently working on the fourth book in The Wicked Series,
tentatively entitled A Wicked Ending, or the third book in The Beckoning Series
or maybe those are done and she's working on.... She loves to write and does it
daily.

-
The Beckoning of Beautiful Things-

"An excellently plotted and written book
that will blow your mind and warm your girly (and man) parts!" Anabella
Johnson--Indie Book Reviewers

Excerpt 1

Her gaze tracked his hand as if he
guided a puppet string attached to her eyes. Her back stiffened slightly as she
secured her point of focus on the beckoning blue orbs. A single word lolled in
her head, like a leaf on a lazy river. Want.
The word balanced on her lips, drawing them apart as she regarded his eyes.
“And what did you discover?”

Not taking his eyes away from hers, he answered. “Just now?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“I think I discovered something rare.”

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I sure want to find out.”

Excerpt 2

As if in response, he leaned
toward her, and covered her lips with his succulent mouth. His tongue delved
inside her mouth, teasing hers open, inviting her tongue to tangle with his.
His wet lips trailed along her jaw to her neck, nibbling and sucking her flesh.
A million birds’ wings fluttered insistently along her slick core, seeking
release.

He sought her eyes and said, “I can’t wait. I just can’t wait any longer. I’m
going to claim you, now, mi corazón.”

A tiny voice in her head protested. Claim
me? Honestly? The rest of her wasn’t listening, not one little bit.

Excerpt 3

“Did you find one?” Tom’s voice
called through the air.

“Yes…no…yes…maybe.”

“Is that a yes or a no, Ms.
Marissa? Make up your mind.”

“It’s a yes, but it’s my head. So not suitable.”

“Bring it.”

“No,” she wailed.

“Bring the damn head,” Tom
commanded with the same force as before.

Marissa ground her teeth together,
scrunched up her face, and let out a loud exclamation, spraying spit from her
mouth as she did this. She clenched and unclenched her hands over and over and
over.

“Get over here!” Tom yelled.
“Chiara’s going to sail away and that is not
going to make me very happy. I’ve been trying to claim her for years.”

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,”
Marissa cried. “Okay…picking up the head…picking up my head…picking up a head
that looks like mine.”

Can you please share
with us a little about yourself?

I’m super smart, curious, introspective. I love to laugh and
find humor in the world around me. I love the natural world. I’m a risk taker.
I’ve taught fire-walking, dance, aerobics. I’ve rock climbed. I’m a kayaker and
a scuba diver. I’m passionate about life and love. I’m in an awesome committed
relationship, have two towering grown kids, two cats and constantly strive to
grow inside. I’ve endured a fair bit of trauma in life but always strive to heal
and not let it define me - it may have shaped me but it’s not who I am.

Have you always
wanted to be an author?

No. My high school advanced placement English teacher told
me I would be a writer. I thought that was a stupid idea. I wanted to explore,
grow, heal, change, move. I wanted to love a lot. I wanted to do everything a
little different from the norm. I wanted to act out and make some really dumb
mistakes, as well as a few brilliant moves. In the end, though, my teacher was
apparently right - all that exploration gave me something to write about!

Can you share with us
your typical writing day. Is there anything you have to have while
writing?

I get up early, when the house is quiet (all save the cats
who want to be fed. They’ve been on purr patrol on the bed, watching me to see
if I’ve awakened.) Cats fed. Check. Jasmine green tea by my side. Check. Shades
open to reveal the beautiful world outside. Check. I’ll write for a few hours
until I have to work at my day job which just so happens to be in the same room
(we own our own business). And then, at days end, I’ll write some more.

What would you say is
the most challenging or rewarding part of writing?

The process of crafting a story is truly rewarding. I love
shaping the characters, fleshing out the worlds they live in and the
circumstances they encounter. When I’m really
immersed in a story, I think about the characters all day long. If I get
stuck, I stop writing but the process continues. I’ll muse about the stuck
part. Shove it out of my head. Let it bubble back into me. And then - voila!
Insight occurs and I’m back on the trail. There’s something extremely delicious
about the whole process. Very fulfilling.

Who are some of your
favorite authors?

Books by JR Ward, Karen Marie Moning, and Tahereh Mafi come
to mind. I am completely captivated with a new author - Damon Suede. And I
enjoy Sasha Campbell’s writing. Those are just a few off the top of my head.

How do you prefer (and why) your female characters to be: damsel in distress or badass chick? Can they be both?

Women
are amazing characters. We are complex. As some joke, we have lots of
“dials and buttons and knobs” whereas men only have an “on/off” switch.
We are mysterious. We are capable of amazing strength. Amazing acts of
kindness and love. Incredible accomplishment. But we generally don’t
start out that way. I know I sure didn’t. Like many, I’ve had more than
my fair share of curve balls pitched my way.

Keeping this in mind,
I generally start out a series writing the female lead from the POV of
her flaws. Her life has shaped her in some sad or disturbing ways. You
might be uncomfortable when you read about her. You might say, “Snap out
of it, girl!” Or you might cheer her on, certain that she can overcome
the odds. Is she a damsel in distress, needing rescuing? Hell, no. She’s
only not found her way yet. That’s where the fun begins. That’s where
the possibilities start rolling in my head. How will she get from broken
to restored, whole and alive? How will this woman become her badass
self?
In The Beckoning of Beautiful Things,
the first in the Beckoning series, we find Marissa Engles immersed in
her art, yearning for a more fulfilling life. Boy, does she get that!
She’s got a complete jackass of a boyfriend, a surfer dude named Jason.
She meets Daniel Navid, sparks fly (literally!) and through learning
that she’s not really who she thought she was, she’s transformed beyond
her wildest dreams.

In The Beckoning of Broken Things,
Marissa starts out smack dab in a mental hospital. She’s pissed. She
doesn’t know how she got there, why she got there, who put her there.
She’s told she’s delusional because she “thinks” she can stream
electricity through her veins and shape the world around her, using her
artistic skills. She’s put on a drug cocktail of Haloperidol, a drug
commonly given to schizophrenics, and Carbamazepine to stabilize her
mood. Carbamazepine is typically given to manic-depressives. This forced
drug induction makes her even angrier. She’s had things done to her
against her will; things done to her without her consent. She’s pissed.
She wonders if she’s broken.

She wonders how she will ever get out of
the situation she’s in.

She’s got a few resources at her disposal.
One is her loyal, loving Doberman Pinscher, Sober Dober, with his new,
sparkly wings. The other is her determination and her will to find
solutions. Her unique abilities certainly play a part. Her sexual
potency factors into her transformation as well. I find that sex and
sexual energy can be one of the most transformative energies on the
planet. It can burn like a blaze taking everything with it like a
volcano. It can simmer and shape change in positive ways. All of my
characters, no matter what shape they start out in, find their way out
through sexual attraction, through owning their sexual power, and
through their potent alliances with their partners of choice.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

NY
Times & USA Today bestselling author, Jill Sanders survived 80′s pop
music, and life as an identical twin in a chaotic family of nine. A feat
by any standard! She was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest,
relocating to Colorado for college and a successful IT career at IBM in
Boulder.

Narrowly
escaping before all creativity was squashed, she jumped at the chance to trade
the mundane world of computers for the sexy, exciting world of her own
imagination. She now lives in charming rural Texas writing wonderful
novels such as the Pride series.

Just in time for Valentine’s Day, come back to Pride and find
the sweet tastes of a something new in your favorite book town. Stop by
the brand new bakery for some home-made treats and watch the sparks
fly between it’s owner and the new Coast Guard hunk in town. You won’t
want to miss this sweet story… Sara Lander was back in town. She had
big plans for her inheritance along with her freshly printed business
degree and years of experience in some of Seattle’s finest bakeries,
she has a rich idea for Pride. Sara’s Nook is going to be the next
biggest thing to hit town. All she needs now is to steer clear of the
hunky ex-Navy SEAL who is hell bent on taking all her focus away from
starting her own business. Allen Masters has been living in Pride for
several years. Setting up a new branch of the Coastguard and training
all the new recruits took years of skill and all his patience. But when
he sees the black-haired beauty, who had come back into town, he
realized she was the one he’d been searching for. Taking one taste of
her sweets, he knew he’d be in for a sinful time, but losing his focus
while flying into the eye of a storm was the last thing he could
afford.

It's
my pleasure to post friend and Author, Carolyn
Arnold on our Events blog today. I met Carolyn a few years ago and am very glad we've gotten to be friends. I lover her writing and her novels are addictive. I'm former Law Enforcement and she writes thriller, so I consider that a strong statement. I hope you enjoy learning more about this outstanding author who is a featured author at our facebook Valentines Day Fantastical Reads Event. Carolyn is also releasing a new book today, so check it out

(you can visit the Event at https://www.facebook.com/events/191966814346532/).

Author Carolyn Arnold

Brief BIO:

Carolyn
Arnold is the best-selling author of the Madison Knight series. Her writing has
been compared to New York Times Bestsellers such as JD Robb, Mary Higgins
Clark, Sue Grafton, Michael Connelly, Tess Gerritsen, and more. She is a
member of Crime Writers of Canada and lives with her husband, and two beagles
in a city near Toronto.

So, Carolyn, what are your feelings regarding pets? DO you have pets? Have you had pets in the past?

I had goldfish
when I was growing up. Their names were Oscar and Louise. As they passed away,
they were replaced so there was at least an Oscar the Third. He was a black
goldfish and Louise was gold.

Cats and I
don't typically get along that well. When I was young, I picked up the
neighbor's cat and it clawed my face. I remember Mom marching with me across
the street to its owner to make sure its shots were up to date. My one sister
also had a cat who reached out to claw my face, but thank goodness for my
cabbage patch doll at the time. She took the brunt of it. I think it's just
something to do with our eyes when they connect. Since then I have met 1 cat
that I got along with—and that was only a month ago—but I think the cat was a
dog in disguise. It was the only cat I've ever met who loves to cuddle.

I have never
had a bird, but love to eat chicken.

Now, dogs, they
are my favorite. Love them. All of them. All sizes and all breeds. I have two
beagles currently, Max and Chelsea. They are just over four years old when I
write this response, and are brother and sister. Before them, I had a beagle
named Todd. We refer to him as Uncle Todd to the new guys. He passed away at 11
and will never be forgotten. They worm into your heart and really become
another family member. Todd has a permanent spot in the Madison Knight series
as Terry Grant's one beagle is named after him.

Of all your characters, who are you the most like?
Who are you the least like?

I am the most like Madison because I am determined
and speak my mind. There are also some differences. Madison is afraid of
commitment, whereas I am happily married. She also has an addiction to
chocolate I can't quite match.

I would say I'm the least like Tessa, the
protagonist from Hart's Choice. She loves ballet and the fine arts, and while
appreciation for such exists within me, it doesn't consume me as it does Tessa.
For her, dance is her passion.

Where do you get your characters' names?

For the most part they come to me without much
thought. Supporting characters, suspects, or one-off encounters sometimes send
me to an online random name generator in search of a name, but my main
characters always tell me who they are. I have even perused my social media
feeds for names.

In Found Innocent, there is a motel clerk Madison
Knight and her partner, Terry, question. During the working stages, I had him
just marked as "*" in a few spots. I do this when I don't have a
name, or need to ensure I get the right one in there, if I've mentioned it
before. Anyway, I felt a strong need to put in the name Trevor. As I kept
working through the scene, I came to realize that's what I had named him later
on, in previous drafts. It just confirmed that was supposed to be his name.

I have even had characters correct me on their
name. A funny thing happened with Eleven and what is now the first in the
Brandon Fisher FBI series. When I was going through the outlining process for
the book trailer, I had put in the name as Brandon Fisher. I didn't catch this
oversight until the trailer was finished. See, I had written the manuscript
with his last name as Harper. Ironically, however, when talking about him I
would always refer to him as Fisher, even though that was originally the last
name for his supervisor. Brandon was very hard-headed about his name and got
the one the one that belonged to him after all.

What do you do when facing a plot block?

I let it sit and busy myself with other things, and
it eventually it comes to me and resolves itself.

The first I experienced a solid block was in the
brainstorming process for Assassination of a Dignitary. The problem was I told
my character Raymond Hunter who he was--I wasn't listening to him. To fix this
issue, I let my mind drift from the plot and the characters. When I let go of
my premonitions about whom and what he was, he spoke to me, rather loudly I may
add and told me, "I'm not a good guy." See, I had originally pegged
him as an innocent. Turns out he was a former hitman for the mafia.

Do you hear voices?

Absolutely and I embrace them! LOL Well, I hear
them in the sense of my writing, nothing beyond that. I think all writers need
to hear voices to get their stories down.

How do you write? Do you plan it all out, or go
with the flow? Do you handwrite it and then type it out, or head right for a
computer?

I write like I'm watching a movie in my mind. I see
the scene, I observe the interactions, and I record them. I prefer to write on
a computer, my laptop or desktop, I'm not fussy. I have handwritten scenes when
I don't have access to a computer, though.

I am what many term a "panster", meaning
I write from the seat of my pants. I don't outline in the typical sense. I go
with the flow, but make notes at the end of the manuscript with points, or
scenes I want to pick up on next, or in the near future.

What is the best compliment you've received about
your writing?

I have received high compliments with comparisons
to some of the greats—JD Robb, Sue Grafton, and Tess Gerritsen to name a few.
But when people tell me they can't put my book down, wow! I had a reader tell
me they had to finish up my book and spent their Sunday doing so. That spoke
specifically to me because Sundays are a day of family and relaxation. To know
that people are relaxing with my books, that is special.

How much of your personal experience do you
incorporate into your writing?

I would have to say a lot of it. I don't think this
can be helped by any author. It's our observations of people, places, events,
and interactions which are unique to us and get integrated into our writing.